Perfect
by PoppycockIsMyProvince
Summary: But his arms are full with the weight of their child, his heart is lighter than it had been in months and Ashara thinks this is perfect.


He's handsome. Not in the blatant, breathtaking way of his brother, but handsome nonetheless. Tall and lean, with eyes the same pale gray as the sky before dawn and the wispy beginnings of hair on his long, pale face.

Handsome and young.

Younger than Brandon, and younger than her.

But as Ashara is spun in fast, dizzying circles around the perimeter of Harrenhall's ballroom -past the disorderly lines of couples drunk on merriment and their tittering, nostalgic parents- she finds it doesn't matter and that all she can focus on are the soft, light eyes above her and the gentle strength of the arms around her: princess and handsomer brothers, bards and swirling skirts alike begin to blur out of existence, as cloud like eyes begin to swallow her whole.

She's dressed in a coarse, green dress, courtesy of one of the Whent's many maids, but the cloak drawn around her is thin and silky and of a contrasting, sand gold. There'd been no time to make a Dayne cloak, and Ashara has never been type to fuss over her clothing. But she cannot help but wish for something thicker, something more substantial as the cool, night's air drifts around the slender, weeping weirwood and over her.

 _Winter is coming indeed_.

But the Septon has arrived, and as the old jowly man takes his place uneasily before the sacred tree, Ashara feels the warm flames of anticipation and promise eat away at the wind, until its bite fades.

The journey to Harrenhall had been buoyant. Full of swathes of laughking knights and preening ladies, perched demurely on horses, fiercely batting their eyelashes and posturing to the league of cloaked dandy's around them.

The journey from Harrenhall is bleak. Laughter has been quenched, a stilted, dry form of silence that has no place among young reigned in it's stead. Elia's carriage is quiet. The distant galloping horses and the gently clinking of knitting needle alone dare to pierce the solemn silence. Ashara's friend had not spoken since Harrenhall. Had not spoken since her Prince had laid the pale crown of roses upon the head of another. Since he had thrown the covert veil of dismissal at her feet and triggered waves of hushed whispers amongst the throng of wide-eyed spectators. Ashara's lady had not breathed a word since she'd swept from the grounds of the tourney, with her back straight and head held proudly.

 _Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken, indeed._.

Ashara had risen to follow her, blocking out the bellows of Baratheon fury, obstreperous amid the stark silence of the grounds. Clutching at her skirts and wondering silently at the reemergence of the world, away from the bewitching spell of sweet grey eyes and whispered vows.

Rickard Stark screams and screams and screams as he burns. And by the Seven Ashara has never been a idealist, but this is not how she ever anticipated meeting her new father. Brandon Stark cries out as he chokes slowly, pronounced veins painting cruel patterns across his formerly fair face. The figure that falls to the floor is defeated and dragged down by the weight of his chains. And so falls the fairest and wildest of the wolves. ("Oh, he's handsome alright, but far too aware of it. Beautiful men are a pleasure, beautiful men who are aware of their good fortune however, are altogether too troublesome.")

Asahara's left hand moves to cup the small, firm bulge of her belly beneath her cloak. Her right hand is clasped tightly in Elia's, the flow of their blood slowing, until their skin is as pale as the ash falling from the rafters.

Outside snow is falling. The shape of the snow flakes is beginning to morph in the name of honour and righteous fury.

Winter is coming .

But inside, the pyre continues cackle in time with the mad king's laughter.

Starfall is beautiful. Beautiful and foreboding. On one side the windows showcase the still waves of the azure Torentine and the towering spires of Red Mountains on the other. It paints a contradictory picture of delicacy and wrath. But as Ashara watches the blood-stained and armour clad man, perched cautiously on the edge of an armchair, his arms full with the weight of their gurgling child and his heart lighter than it had been in months, she thinks that this juxtaposition is perfect.


End file.
